Sex and Murder.com: A Paul Turner Mystery (18 page)

“I don’t know. Sturm delivered it in person. If I don’t make you toe the line, they will find someone who will.”

“What did you tell him?” Wilson asked.

“We traded bureaucratic barbs.”

“Huh?” Roosevelt asked.

“We obfuscated. We danced around the issue. We were exceedingly polite.”

“And got nowhere,” Wilson said.

“We got threatened,” Molton said. “I may be used to this kind of threatening bullshit, but the pressure is real. For all the brass’s bluster, as you know, your jobs aren’t really at risk. But this high profile crap gives a case a sense of urgency all out of proportion to real detective work.”

“Is Girote involved in the murder?” Roosevelt asked.

“Did Werberg say he specifically called Girote?” Molton asked.

“No,” Fenwick said.

“Pressure Girote if you have to,” Molton said. “Find out for sure what he knows. The son of a bitch has been a pain in the ass to me over this and other things in the past. He hasn’t told you everything. If he does know something about the murder, or more likely an attempted cover-up, I want to know about it.”

Wilson said, “It’s their jobs you’re putting on the line if they pressure him.”

“I’ll call,” Fenwick said. “It’s not a problem.”

“Shall we gather at the computer for the checking of messages?” Turner asked. “I’d hate for any of you to miss out on this.”

Turner flicked on his computer. He called up his e-mail. There was only one new posting. The name listed was “from one who hates you the most.” The message was a simple, “Ha!”

“And that means?” Fenwick asked.

Turner said, “It could be anything. Maybe it’s from the killer, crowing about Werberg’s murder.”

They sent Turner’s box and its powder out for analysis. No one had offered to do the television and movie trick of putting a finger into the unknown substance and tasting it. Tough cops they might be, but none of them took stupid pills either.

The phone rang on Turner’s desk. He picked up the receiver. The voice on the other end said, “I think you’re going to be next.” He heard a click and then a dial tone. Turner began punching in numbers.

“What?” Fenwick asked.

Turner told them what the caller said.

Molton said, “Get onto the computer hookups at headquarters. Find out where that call came from.”

“Already on it,” Turner said. The operator identified the call as coming from a phone inside the fast-food restaurant at the corner of Dearborn and Congress Parkway. They nearest beat car was dispatched immediately. Turner and Fenwick rushed over as well. When they got there, the restaurant was crowded. With the beat cops, they talked to all the employees and patrons. No one admitted to having seen anyone near the phone.

Turner said, “I’ve got three separate types of communications with unknown origins. I’ve got the phone calls, the chocolate, and the e-mail. Are they all connected to each other? Are they all separate? Two out of three? Is it the serial killer? A random nut? A computer hacker who desperately needs a life?”

“That last could apply to all of them,” Fenwick said.

“I think this is serious,” Molton said when they got back upstairs.

“Me too,” Turner said.

Fenwick said, “My guess is that it’s our killer from Interstate Ninety.”

“Or a copycat,” Turner said. “High profile cases bring out the loonies. Morgensen doesn’t report any prior warnings or messages or chocolate.”

“Check with him on that,” Molton said, “and with the cops in the other jurisdictions. I think we need to begin working on the assumption that the call and the message represent real danger. I’m not sure about the boxes, but I don’t like it. The police protection I’ve ordered will be in place whenever you go home. I want to alert the department, get it mentioned at all roll calls.”

Turner said, “After that article yesterday morning, every cop in the city is on high alert.”

“Danger to a specific officer needs official attention. We can be organized. We can get out information in a coordinated fashion. If nothing else, we can find out if there have been other threats.”

“This isn’t the first threat I’ve gotten over the years,” Turner said. “It won’t be the last.”

“You want to move Ben and the kids out to my house?” Fenwick asked.

“I’m not sure yet.”

Molton said, “You’ll have all the protection you need. I’m not losing any personnel to some nut.”

Turner thanked him. Molton left.

Turner called Morgensen’s pager number from the card he’d given them when they met. He asked about warnings or messages. Morgensen said, “Why, is somebody getting messages there?”

Turner had to decide quickly whether to trust him or not. He said, “Cops get threats all the time. There’s been some here. We need to know if there’s a possible connection.”

“I don’t have anything so far. I’ll check.”

A few phone calls got them Girote’s home number. Fenwick called.

Girote said, “You have some nerve calling me on a Saturday night at home.”

“I’m working on a murder case,” Fenwick said. “I thought that’s what you wanted—results. I hear you’ve been making all kinds of calls trying to pressure us and our boss about this case. I don’t like you. I don’t like pressure. Maybe you’re trying to orchestrate a cover-up. Or maybe you’re the killer.”

Girote hung up on him.

Fenwick finished announcing the results of his call by saying, “It’s going to get ugly.”

“It already is,” Turner said.

Turner and Fenwick did paperwork for an hour. Finally, Turner said, “It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday night. My family is waiting for me at home and I’m going. I don’t care how dead Werberg is.”

Fenwick agreed. Molton had ordered the surveillance he’d promised for Turner. His protection, a blue and white Chicago cop car, followed him home and parked halfway down the block.

15

Domestic bliss! Ha! Domestic death is how I see it.

At home Paul changed into jeans and a heavy sweatshirt and walked next door to Mrs. Talucci’s house. Ben, Jeff, Mrs. Talucci, and three of her great-grandnieces had recently been spending Saturday evenings taking turns reading chapters of the Harry Potter books out loud. They were halfway through
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.
Paul especially enjoyed reading them out loud. Jeff confided that he liked his dad’s deep, sonorous voice best.

Paul hated being late. He sat down close to Ben and ate an Italian sausage sandwich provided by Mrs. Talucci as he listened to Lucinda Talucci finish reading chapter ten. Paul took a turn on the next chapter.

Half an hour later they gathered in the kitchen for ice cream and fresh-baked scones.

Mrs. Talucci said, “Paul, you look exhausted.”

“I didn’t get enough sleep last night. Yesterday morning I didn’t know I’d have another one of these big cases.”

“It seems all of them lately have been big,” Jeff said.

Paul said, “I had plans this weekend. There’s things I need to do around the house. I wanted to spend time with the boys and Ben. I haven’t had time to talk to you, Rose. You haven’t told me about your latest trip.”

She said, “We’ll inflict slides and videos on anyone who can’t run fast enough at some point, but not tonight.”

“What’s going on with that computer guy case?” Jeff asked. “I read about him all the time in the computer magazines. It was on the news that Mr. Werberg is dead, too. The two cases are connected, right, Dad? The mayor’s press secretary was on the news before we left. He said they were.”

Mrs. Talucci snorted. “Vinnie Girote is mortally stupid. I remember him growing up. He tried dating several of my daughters. If I was a putting-a-stop to it kind of person, I would have put a stop to it. I’m afraid I played a very mean trick.”

“You’re never mean,” Jeff said.

Mrs. Talucci laughed. “What I did is invite him over. Constantly, for dinner, for family gatherings, for picnics. That way my daughters would get to know him. I think he’s just as obnoxious and overbearing at sixty as he was when he was sixteen. For most sensible people, his presence made the heart run as fast as it could in the other direction. For several of my daughters, it took more time than I wished, but fortunately, he never became part of this family.”

“You’re pretty smart,” Jeff said.

She laughed and patted his arm.

Ben said, “He’s really applying all kinds of pressure about the case? What good does that actually do?”

“None,” Paul said.

“That is so typical of him,” Mrs. Talucci said. “He’s the kind who can’t do things himself, but he thinks he can make others jump at his whim. That’s because he jumps at everybody else’s whim. He’s a fool.” Paul saw her lips set and her jaw clench. He suspected she’d come to a decision. “I know his mother,” Mrs. Talucci said. “A fine woman, as long as you weren’t married to her. She buried three husbands, drove them all to an early grave. We’d all be better off if she drove her son there too.”

Ben said, “That’s a harsher judgment than I’ve ever heard you give.”

“He’s is not a nice person,” she said.

Paul, Ben, and Jeff left. It was nearly eleven. The night was cold and fine with no wind as they wheeled Jeff home. It would have been easier to carry him, but he’d gotten more insistent lately about not being carried. Paul figured this had something to do with Jeff’s needing to feel less like a little kid. The short trip home took only a few minutes more time to accomplish this way, and if it made the boy feel better, Paul was willing to accommodate his son. Time was one thing he was determined to never begrudge his family.

As they neared the front steps, the blue and white squad car containing Paul’s protection lurched forward. The Mars lights began to spin, the headlights began to flash on and off, and its siren began to
whoop.
The voice on the loud speaker said, “You in the van, stay where you are.”

A van load of teenagers was parked in front of the house across the street from Paul’s. The two uniformed officers exited their car. One of them had one hand on his gun and a flashlight in the other. He shone it into the van’s interior. His partner stood at the open squad car door. Less than five seconds later, two more squad cars pulled into their street. Mrs. Talucci joined Paul, Ben, Jeff, and other neighbors as people began to converge on the scene. Paul strode forward.

“Everybody out of the van,” the cop ordered.

Paul saw his son, Brian, Andy Wycliff, Brian’s project kid, Jose, Brian’s best friend, and another teenager he knew from Brian’s football team hop out of a van.

“What’s up?” Paul asked.

“These kids have been sitting here for fifteen minutes watching the houses.”

“Dad?” Brian said.

“One of these yours?” the uniformed cop asked.

“Yeah. I know all of them,” Paul said.

“I thought I saw light glinting off metal. I didn’t know what they were doing. It’s getting a little late to be sitting in a van.”

“I’ll vouch for them,” Turner said. “I appreciate you being vigilant.”

“What’s going on?” Brian asked.

“Yeah, Dad,” Jeff said, “what would happen if Brian got arrested?”

Paul said, “You’d have more chores to do.”

“Oh.”

Mrs. Talucci said, “That’s an awful lot of cop cars for a group of slightly suspicious teenagers.”

Paul said, “Because of that newspaper article, everyone in the department is being more careful, and I got a crank call at work. For a day or two, there’s going to be someone outside the house.”

“Good idea,” Ben said.

Mrs. Talucci nodded, “I’ll make sure everyone in the neighborhood stays on the alert.” In this old Italian neighborhood, people tended to watch out for one another.

When they finally got settled in the house, Brian said, “That was a little more excitement than I expected.”

“Why were you guys sitting out there?” Paul asked.

Brian said, “Sketching out plans for international drug deals and finalizing details on selling our sisters into white slavery.”

Ever the practical one, Jeff said, “We don’t have a sister, and you don’t do drugs.”

Brian said, “I guess that wasn’t as funny as I thought it would be.”

Paul didn’t really want to talk about the threats he’d been receiving, but he spent some time reassuring them about how careful he was, and how statistics were on his side in returning home safely each night. Paul thought Jeff still had a romanticized notion of what a detective did and the dangers involved. Television and movies exaggerated the dangers and the heroism. Brian never said much, but Paul noticed that at those times when there was possible danger to his dad or headlines about cops being killed, the boy stayed home more, as if his simple presence would be enough to deter any attacker. Paul wished it was that simple.

Paul said to Brian, “For now, maybe you and your buddies better not sit outside.”

“You think there really is a danger?” Brian asked.

“I don’t know. And since I don’t know, I don’t want to take any chances. As much as you may want to live the life of an action adventure hero, I don’t, and I don’t want you to.”

“That’s boring,” Jeff said.

“I prefer boring,” Paul said.

“What action adventure film did you see tonight?” Jeff asked Brian.

Brian said,
“Dead Witches Eating Machine Gun-Shooting Spies Who Know What Everyone Did Last Summer.”

Ben said, “I thought those kinds of movies were the rage last year.”

“Can there ever be enough ‘dead teenager’ movies?” Brian asked.

“But you’re a teenager,” Jeff said as he spun his wheelchair in a circle. “Aren’t they supposed to be scary?”

“They’re supposed to be,” Brian said, “but my friends and I rarely stop laughing through most of them. The best part of this one was the helicopter showing up at the end for no logical reason. Except maybe because the script writer was desperate to come up with a spectacular ending.”

“Did it blow up?” Jeff asked.

“It was a helicopter in a movie,” Brian said. “Of course it blew up.”

An hour later, the house was quiet. In T-shirt, briefs, and white athletic socks, Paul was downstairs getting a drink of water from the bottle in the refrigerator. The house was quiet. He heard steps on the stairs, and seconds later Brian padded into the room. His son wore only flaming red boxer shorts on his well-muscled frame. He sat down at the table.